When news broke that President Bola Ahmed Tinubu had granted presidential pardons to seventy convicted drug offenders, the country erupted in disbelief. At first, it sounded like a joke — but when the official list surfaced, shock turned to outrage. Never before in Nigeria’s history, or anywhere in the world, has a sitting president extended mercy to that many drug convicts at once. It is unprecedented, unreasonable, and deeply unfair.
Presidential pardons are not strange. Mercy has its place in governance — it exists to balance justice with compassion, to give genuine repentance a second chance. But when mercy is misplaced, it ceases to be compassion; it becomes ridicule. What the President has done transforms years of national sacrifice and anti-drug enforcement into what can only be described as a beautiful nonsense.
The National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) has long stood as one of the few respected government institutions. Under the leadership of Brigadier General Buba Marwa, it became a symbol of integrity and relentless pursuit against narcotics. In 2024 alone, the agency seized over ₦500 billion worth of drugs and dismantled several major cartels. Many officers lost their lives, while others sustained injuries or lived under threats from powerful traffickers. Their commitment was driven by the hope of building a safer Nigeria. And now, with one presidential stroke of a pen, their sacrifice appears meaningless.
So, why should NDLEA officers keep risking their lives? Why chase dangerous drug barons if they can later be rewarded with presidential mercy?
One name on the list immediately drew public attention — Maryam Sanda, the woman convicted for the murder of her husband, Bilyamin Bello. Her case once stood as a painful reminder that no one is above the law. But now, her inclusion among the pardoned has reignited debate. Some believe she has suffered enough; others insist justice has been undermined. Yet, one can’t help but ask — if the late Bilyamin could see this, what would he say? Would he ask for her freedom for the sake of their children, or demand that justice be served?
That is the human dilemma — the thin line between justice and mercy. True mercy does not erase accountability; it completes it. Without fairness, mercy loses its moral strength.
Still, compassion must have boundaries. It must not glamorize wrongdoing or make crime seem like a privilege of the powerful. Unfortunately, that is what this mass pardon has done.
In today’s Nigeria, justice too often depends on connection, not conviction. The privileged walk free, while the powerless are buried under the system’s weight.
When I once asked NDLEA officers if they felt demoralized knowing the President had freed people they worked hard to convict, their weary laughter said it all. “Madam, carry your wahala dey go,” one of them told me. It was laughter without hope — the kind that comes when you realize your courage means nothing in a nation that rewards impunity.
There are mothers behind bars for stealing baby food, fathers imprisoned for stealing fuel to power their homes, and youths locked up for petty theft. Yet, politicians who embezzle billions walk free and even host thanksgiving services. This is not justice; it is hypocrisy in uniform.
Mercy, when selective, becomes mockery. A pardon that ignores the poor while favoring the powerful deepens societal wounds. Justice should never be a privilege of the connected. When the state extends mercy to the rich but forgets the voiceless, it becomes an accomplice in oppression.
What is justice when the mighty never pay? What is mercy when it is purchased by influence, not repentance?
The law should defend the weak, not entertain the strong. Yet today, it bends for those with access and breaks those without. That is not governance — that is organized injustice.
Many of the names on the pardon list are drug traffickers — individuals convicted for importing cocaine, dealing in Tramadol, or engaging in illegal mining that destroyed local communities. People like Abiodun Elemero, sentenced to life for cocaine trafficking; Kelvin Christopher Smith, convicted in 2023 for importing cocaine; and Akinrinnade Adebiyi, involved in Tramadol distribution — a drug that has devastated countless Nigerian youths. Also freed were Azubuike Jeremiah Emeka, convicted in 2021 for cocaine importation, and Ahmed Adeyemo, who had served nine of his fifteen-year sentence for cannabis possession.
Now, they walk free.
These are not minor offenders. Their actions have wrecked homes and destroyed futures. Pardoning them is not compassion — it is betrayal.
Even illegal miners, whose activities have polluted rivers and displaced communities, are now beneficiaries of mercy. Their crimes go beyond theft — they scar the environment and endanger generations. What message does this send? That you can destroy lives and still walk free if your name reaches the right political desk?
To make matters worse, the list includes ex-governors convicted of corruption — men who stole from public coffers, leaving their citizens in poverty. Their release makes a mockery of hardworking Nigerians who still endure unpaid wages while serving their country with dignity.
Presidential pardons should be sacred, not seasonal. They should stem from deep moral reflection, not political convenience. This one reeks of favoritism and opportunism, sending a loud message that in Nigeria, justice is negotiable.
Some defend the move as an act of compassion. But compassion without accountability is chaos. True mercy does not erase pain or undermine justice; it restores balance. What the government calls compassion is, in truth, a betrayal of law and conscience.
Inside Nigeria’s prisons are countless people who deserve mercy — not because of influence, but because of circumstance. The poor man jailed for stealing food, the woman detained for years without trial, the young man behind bars because he couldn’t afford bail. They are victims of survival, not hardened criminals. If mercy must exist, it should start from the bottom, not the top.
Leadership is not just about authority; it is about moral courage. Mercy should be a reward for repentance, not a gift for the powerful. The NDLEA must not remain silent — it owes that much to its officers, both living and dead, who believed in justice. To stay quiet now would be surrender.
Strangely, some of the pardoned individuals are already deceased. What purpose does it serve to pardon the dead? Can bones appreciate mercy? Unless there is new evidence proving innocence, such pardons are nothing but political theatre — empty gestures dressed as generosity.
Every misplaced pardon weakens justice. It tells victims their pain is irrelevant and law enforcement that their efforts are wasted. For mercy to regain its meaning, it must be guided by conscience, not convenience.
A presidential signature should carry the weight of moral reflection, not political favor. A nation that forgives the guilty while forgetting the powerless risks destroying its moral compass.
Nigeria must decide what kind of country it wants to be — one that rewards accountability or one that celebrates impunity. Because when justice becomes negotiable, no one is truly safe.
President Tinubu’s mass pardon has revealed the cracks in our moral foundation. It may have been framed as compassion, but history will remember it as cowardice — the day Nigeria looked justice in the eye and turned away.
Mercy should restore humanity, not bury justice. But in this case, mercy has been handed out like souvenirs — cheap, selective, and unjust. A nation still struggling with crime cannot afford to free those who fuel it.
That is not mercy. That is madness.
And Nigerians deserve far better.
